


Take for Granite

by templefugate



Series: Roark & Roll [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Diamond & Pearl & Platinum | Pokemon Diamond Pearl Platinum Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jurassic World Fusion, Angst, Dubious Ethics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templefugate/pseuds/templefugate
Summary: Byron was mad, though he couldn't be sure in what sense of the word.





	Take for Granite

**Author's Note:**

> This really isn't much of a crossover so much as a plot bunny that draws on ideas from JW: FK.

He felt the rumble, a shake so deep and long that Byron had to wonder if the earth itself was laughing _(but at what?)_ , before he heard the news. It was enough to cause him to send out his Bastioshieldon and clutch the firm, sturdy creature. There were no wall mounts - a consideration he'd looked past when creating his lift-powered gym. The floor below shook in his vision.

News alerts said it only took seconds. Right then, gripping his Pokemon for dear life and trying to shake off images of them both falling helplessly to the ground like dolls dropped from a child's hand, it felt as though hours were passing.

When it was over, her head felt like it was made of lead and his legs jelly. There were shouts from down below, the dim ringing of cell phones, and the crackling of burst electrical lines. Sending Bastiodon back into its Pokeball, Byron brought out his Bronzor and clutched it as he wobbled towards the red-circled master lift.

The ride down was smooth. The lift itself hadn't been harmed, though he passed broken beams and dented metal extensions. In the far south corner, a pipe had broken, water streaming forth onto the floor as if from a suddenly formed geyser.

The workers that trained at his gym part-time weren't phased at all. If anything, they seemed more energetic than usual. One was using his Onix to pick up pieces of metal, while another was investigating a large hole in the west wall.

With one quick shake of his head, they turned away from their duties and towards Byron.

"There are other people here," he spoke. Moonlight streamed in from one hole, illuminating a section of the gym that had lost electricity. It used to be that the gym closed promptly at eight. Now, though, trainers working under him came at all hours. Right then, there was no telling how many stayed home that evening and how many were inside.

The search too seemed to take hours. If there wasn't a cry coming from one area, then they searched the building methodically. In all, they found four other trainers. While one ace trainer seemed untouched, keeping up her cool demeanor as she helped them search out the rest of the gym, the rest were hurried to a nearby hospital.

Luckily for those harmed, emergency workers arrived relatively quickly. With them came paperwork, which even on a good day took lifetimes.

"I heard there was an earthquake," one paramedic said as he handed Byron a stack of papers.

"I was worried it was a Team Galactic attack." replied a Pokemon ranger. "Especially considering how close they were to bombing Celestic Town."

They even dragged him to the hospital. Byron filled out paperwork in a crowded waiting room, his cell phone turned on for once. He'd never been a fan of the little electronic parasites, even when they were the size of a brick. Now, though, he kept it on. Roark had given it to him a year back, insisting that it would be easier for the two to keep in contact that way.

_Roark._

The name reverbrated through his head. Tossing his pen aside and ignoring the worried chatter of surrounding outpatients, he quickly dialed his son's number.

The picture of him that flashed across Byron's screen was enough to make him smile. The movement felt alien in this place of sickness and distress. Yet his heart was made neither of rock or steel. There was Roark, age seven, standing as tall as he could, clutching the first fossil he ever dug up. His clothes were covered in dirt, his glasses slipping down his nose. Even if he lived to see Roark's chin grow more than stubble and his hair turn silver, he would still always be that wide eyed, small for his age boy.

The phone ringed a few times before going silent. He tried it a second time but again got no reply. His text never went through - the connection was close to nonexistent.

Not that he had time to worry. A physician pulled him from the waiting room and began running physical tests on him. Soon after, he was ushered in for an X-ray before being sent off with a clean bill of health.

He filled out his remaining paperwork at a refuge set up near the Pokemon Center. A few of his trainers were there as well.

"They still aren't sure what caused the earthquake," a black-belt commented. "At least that's what I read before my wifi connection went down."

Really, it wasn't so bad. The hospital and Pokemon Center had survived, and only part of the library had been damaged. Many houses had lost power but were still standing. The docks were closed - even if he'd wanted to go home to Iron Island, he couldn't.

-

When the mountain of paperwork was finished and news about his inpatient trainers arrived, Byron slept five and a half hours. He could have slept longer, through the entire fiasco if he had to, but the knock on his door was enough to force him out of bed. Using a shovel as a cane, he hobbled over.

If Roark or one of his younger trainers were there, they would have laughed at him. His shirt was discarded on the floor of the Pokemon Center, his hair was sticking up in every imaginable angle, and he wore only a pair of baby-blue boxers. Had there been anyone around to laugh at him, he would have barked at them to do his laundry if they were so concerned.

The police officers that answered his door didn't blink an eye at him.

"Officers, if this is about the gym's trainers-"

"Are you related to the Oreburgh City gym leader?"

Byron blinked, momentarily dumbstruck. In that short span of time, his brain finally focused on their accents. He couldn't place the exact region, but he knew they weren't any of the cops who stopped by the gym for a quick battle on their breaks.

"I'm Roark's father." He straightened his back. "I tried to contact him earlier."

"Were you succesful?"

His heart seemed ready to burst from his chest. "No."

"Sir, we have been trying to reach him for hours. Judging by what his trainers and coworkers told us, we believe he might be in the rubble."

-

It wasn't an earthquake in the traditional sense. No tectonic plates scratched against one another. The current theory was that an explorer in the underground had been mining like usual and hit a weak stone. Whether they'd been lost in search for a heart scale or only making tepid taps, it had carried enough pressure to send the whole underground falling in on itself.

Scientists working there had never hypothesized such a collapse occurring. Even if they had, they surely would have looked past it. The underground gave those eggheads a seemingly endless stream of fossils to poke and test at.

Byron had been down there a few times, usually with Roark. Call him old-fashioned, but he'd always preferred a mine with a definite entrance over going underground from anywhere. Where Roark spent hours digging down there or running between his friends' secret bases, Byron lacked the time and energy. The gym was his life.

It had been, ever since he'd first become a gym leader. Those last few months it was almost his everything. Once it was rebuilt and new emergency procedures implemented, Byron took to sleeping in a cot upstairs. He spoke and fought with trainers at all hours of day and night. He optioned replacements, sent emails and compared battle strategies.

Byron missed his own retirement party. It went on the same date as originally scheduled almost a year before. Roark wasn't there, and at that point there was little chance he would.

It wasn't that he gave up hope. Pawing through old pictures or listening to his son's voice before it went to voice mail filled his heart with warmth. But where other trainers and Pokemon were pulled out, both miraculously unharmed or seriously injured, Roark remained lost underground.

He loved those underground tunnels, almost as much as he loved the Oreburgh coal mine. Yet even Roark knew when to eventually return to the surface.

Whenever Byron wasn't at the gym, he was in Oreburgh. One of the ace trainers working under him took him between the two cities constantly on his Skarmory.

There was his son's gym to consider as well. It was a hassle he hadn't been ready for. He didn't retire so much as move to another gym.

Roark's Pokemon were lost as well. Byron caught a Geodude and did his best to fight any passing trainers, but there was no fire in him. Some days, he thought about shoving the badge in the trainer's hands as soon as they stepped through the door and being done with it.

Not that he had much time to fight. Most days the gym was closed; if any trainers went in, they were local kids working under Roark.

"Mr. Byron, when will Roark be back?" a picnicker asked one morning.

He made no reply.

There was paperwork to deal with and seemingly endless forms. Investigators dropped by as if at random, bringing with them everything but answers.

There was still a chance. Roark was a resourceful man who knew the underground better than the back of his hand. A few small tunnels remained - perhaps he was in one.

Byron held onto that hope with a grip tighter than steel.

Then the investigators brought him a polished mahogany box.

-

They'd had to separate his bones out from two other sets. Beyond the DNA testing, they'd had to identify each piece of him and put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle. They only recovered three-fourths of him.

The flesh, exposed to dry rocks and little fauna, had taken longer than usual to begin to decay. The skin that hadn't been lost in testing was brought home, thin and discolored and just barely sticking to his bones. It only stuck to parts of his cracked skull and femur.

They never found his glasses, but his clothes and helmet came home in a white paper bag marked as evidence.

If he sniffed as hard as he could, he could faintly make out his son's cologne sticking to his jacket.

-

Iron Island had only had a few lifts and hallways crumble. The Pokemon inside, used to mining accidents from years past, had taken the disaster in stride.

His cabin was untouched. The bed was still made and his sink continued to spit out clear water.

He was possessed by a nameless spirit, alive without thought but heavy in motivation. The dust was swept outside, the curtains opened to let in light. Byron emptied his fridge and replaced light bulbs.

Once he had finished with laundry, he went upstairs. The rusty key shook in his hands so badly that he feared it would slip out of his grip.

He never went to Roark's room. It had been an unspoken agreement between the two, first when he left as a boy to travel Sinnoh and again when he moved to Oreburgh for college.

It was just as he'd left it. His graduation gown littered the floor, his cap perched on a chair. Rocks and crystals littered his desk and dresser. Dusty and faded pictures taped to the wall depicted him and his high school friends. Try as he might, Byron could not remember their names.

He did not wipe away any dust. Instead, he walked forward and emptied the white bag. First came his dark trousers, then his socks and T-shirt. Byron folded them neatly, laying them down on the center of Roark's unmade bed. Then came his helmet, smooth in parts and scratched in others. The light had broken.

He saved the jacket for last. It was unwashed, still covered in dirt and grit. The smell was fading. When he laid it down, the sleeves caved in. It looked lifeless and as though it had forgotten what it was supposed to be used for.

If Roark were to suddenly come inside and scold him for digging around in his things, Byron wouldn't have batted an eyelash. Indeed, when he woke up early some mornings, the sun sending streaks of purple and navy across the horizon, it almost seemed as though Roark were still there. Not at home but wondering somewhere close, basking in the sun's ray and alive with a vigorous spirit that couldn't leave its body if it knew how to. After all, what good was a world without him?

Then his brain would really turn on and it was as though he was being handed the box all over again.

Byron locked the door and went back downstairs. Rather than turning into the main room, he descended another flight of stairs.

The basement was damp and cold. It was largely empty, save for a small island of boxes and furniture that sat in the center of the room.

Byron had never been sure why he kept Roark's baby things. There was little to be sentimental over. Being a working single father came with rewards, but those could be ripped away from someone as easily as paper on a breeze.

There were his old clothes. He'd always worn practical, plain-clothed hand-me downs. There just hadn't been money back then for stuff he would inevitably outgrow. A few stuffed Pokedolls sat forgotten in a box, while his crib was drowning in dust.

Taking all that stuff to the mainland to be dumped or donated would have taken hours and a number of two-way trips. Combined with the stuff upstairs...

Byron shook his head.

-

The ghost was back. This time, it stole over his mind rather than his body. It repeated the same thought endlessly, to the point that the words became senseless.

He'd entertained the notion after his wife's passing but never really meant it. The macabre humor was gone now, replaced with a fire that threatened to cook his insides.

If Byron didn't move, he'd choke on his own smoke.

-

He emptied Roark's museum locker and office with little fanfare. There wasn't much to take - a framed master's degree, some fossil shards, and a laptop. Whatever else was left was stuffed into a box - paperwork and chewed up pencils mostly.

Byron was mad, though he couldn't be sure in what sense of the word.

The machine was still on. Roark had been trained in it and had showed Byron how to use it. All he needed was some DNA...

Damn the ethics boards. Damn Arceus and all of his kin. Damn the doubts swirling in his mind, the memories that ate at him.

If his world was going to be set on fire then surely he should be allowed to try and extinguish the flame.

-

It wasn't hard to do a dance again if one knew the movements. Cargan had a habit of crying at odd night hours and not keeping his mashed peas down. Byron diligently changed his diapers and kept an eye on him. If he had the energy, he'd let the boy play with his Pokemon or even visit the mines. He'd sit on Byron's shoulders, reaching for stalagmites that his small arms couldn't touch.

Though Cargan enjoyed his Bastiodon's company and seemed blind to their incredible size difference, his eyes lit up whenever Byron released his Geodude. He'd never imagined the rock could have been so gentle.

It still hurt to look at old photos. They might as well have been mirrors connecting the past and future.

-

Just when scraps of red hair had begun to sprout on Cargan's head, Riley stopped for a visit. He'd gotten a tan during his training session at Alola but otherwise seemed unchanged. His attempt at an Alolan greeting had been enough to get them both laughing.

Byron had practiced the story countless times in his head, but only now did it spill out from his lips. Roark had been seeing a woman. The two had acted freely, without regards for the consequences. When Byron found out, they had squabbled over it. Byron had pressured him into marrying her, it was the only sensible, moral action, but in the end the couple hadn't reached their special day.

Riley's face was unreadable, his eyes flat.

Not that it mattered what he thought, what anyone did. What did they know? What made them think their opinion mattered?

Wordlessly, Riley stroked the child's head.

-

"Gram... Gram..."

"Grandpa."

Cargan loved saying words. A few he even knew the meaning that was behind them. Other times he babbled.

"Gram... Pah."

The word felt foreign even on Byron's tongue, but that would go away with time. Cargan could call him nothing but four letter words and Byron would still smile.

-

With each passing day, he grew more into his father's skin.

**Author's Note:**

> So I started replaying Pearl a few days ago and got hit with a massive feels bomb for these two. I'll definitely be writing more fics for these two, though it'll probably be in a different (and hopefully happier) 'verse.


End file.
